


Post-mortem

by ironicpotential



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Sanvers Secret Valentine 2020, Six Feet Under AU sort of, mortician au, there's fluff there I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicpotential/pseuds/ironicpotential
Summary: She’s used to knocking on doors, consoling family members. She’s faced their sorrow, their grief, more times than she can count.Or, Maggie's partner dies and she shoulders the burden of planning his funeral. The Mortician Alex AU.
Relationships: Alex Danvers/Maggie Sawyer
Comments: 15
Kudos: 122
Collections: Secret Sanvers | A Sanvers Valentines Day Event





	Post-mortem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanvers_L](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sanvers_L).



> For Lily (Sanvers_L). This is probably not at all what you expected, but I really hope you like it.

“Feldman?”

“Huh?”

Maggie blinks and straightens her back, the three month old issue of _Better Homes and Gardens_ she’d been trying to read slipping off her lap and crumpling to the floor. Somewhere between an article about tiny homes and a list of gardening tips, she’d dozed off— or blacked out. 

Her head throbs, the fluorescent lights of the waiting room coming into focus. 

It’s been hours since she first arrived, or maybe minutes, it’s hard to be sure. She checks her watch, the surface flecked with blood. Three am. Hours then.

“Are you here for Detective Feldman?”

The doctor stands over her, his youthful face a mask of concern. His hands are folded behind his back, shoulders squared, bracing himself for the news he’s about to deliver.

“Ma'am? Are you his family?” His voice is soft, but the words are stilted. As if he’s been instructed to be open and friendly no matter what he’s about to say. It’s not nearly as comforting as he intends it to be. 

“No. No, I’m...” She glances down at her shirt, the once crisp button down caked with dirt, stained with red. She gestures to her badge, also bloodied. “I’m his partner.”

 _Was_ _his partner._

The doctor hasn’t confirmed it yet, not in so many words, but she knows. There’s not a shred of joy behind the professionalism. No relief at having saved the life of one of National City’s finest. 

Detective Feldman is dead. 

Another patient passes by, eyeing her with both sympathy and disgust. She has half a mind to ask for a spare pair of scrubs, but changing out of her work clothes feels like forgetting. Like she’s dishonoring his sacrifice.

No. She’ll take her blazer, torn in the sleeve from where a bullet just grazed her by, over any reminder of this hospital. It would be too clean. Too sterile. Too impersonal. Like the doctor’s tone. Kind, but business-like. To him, death is routine, much as it is to Maggie, now. 

Years spent working homicides will do that to a person. 

Early on in her law enforcement career she learned to distance herself, to compartmentalize those horrors. To tell herself that the individuals lying dead on the floor couldn’t be her friends or family.

At the academy, she had poured over textbooks riddled with bullet wounds, lacerations, and livor mortis, each photograph in clear, grotesque color. 

You speak about them in generalizations, if you have to at all.

The victim. 

The body.

_Shots ringing out. Her partner’s body, crumpling to the pavement like that magazine. Dragging him, his chest heaving, eyes wide, behind cover. Hands pressed to the wound, sirens blaring in the distance-_

“Is there someone we should call?”

She had called it in, frantically over her radio as backup finally arrived. Backup they hadn’t expected to need. 

_Officer down._

“I… I have to call his wife.”

She’s used to knocking on doors, consoling family members. She’s faced their sorrow, their grief, more times than she can count. 

She can’t face this. She can’t call the wife of the man she trusted with her life to tell her that he died saving her life. That he dove in front of her the minute he spotted the gun. 

Detective Feldman had taken one look at her, a fresh-faced rookie straight from the academy, and had seen promise. He was more than a partner. He was a mentor. A father figure. And his wife had been just as welcoming. They never had kids, but they’d taken her in as if she were their kin.

She can’t face this, but she has to. It’s her duty as an officer, and as a friend. 

She makes the call slumped against the wall of the waiting room, trembling hands barely able to hold the phone up to her ear. 

Maggie volunteers to help arrange the funeral. Shouldering some of the widow’s emotional burden is the least she can do. And while it doesn’t erase her survivor’s guilt, it feels somewhat like penance. 

She remembers the last police officer’s funeral they had attended— how he’d tugged at his collar as they stood at attention, sweating in their dress blues. They’d gone for burgers afterwards and planned their own funerals. She’d come up with something outlandish to break the tension— shot out into space like Spock— but he’d grown somber. The slain officer was an old classmate, it had hit too close to home. So now, she knows to plan a simple service, close friends and family only, without all the pomp and circumstance of a full police funeral.

~

Danvers Mortuary is homey, probably family run. The furniture is mismatched, as if it has been slowly replaced over the years, and the walls are covered in photographs. 

“Hi! How can I help you?” A blonde woman in a pastel cardigan appears from around the corner, juggling a large floral arrangement. She sets it down on a table and turns to Maggie, her smile so bright it could blind the sun. 

She can see how people might feel comforted by this woman. 

“I called earlier about Detective Feldman,” she says.

“Oh! Yes, you’re Detective Sawyer. I’m Kara. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Maggie nods. She’s heard those five words so frequently the past few days that they’ve lost all meaning. 

Kara runs through the procedures: whether she wants an open or closed casket, what kind of flowers she’d like, how many mourners they’ll have. There’s so many decisions to be made and while she’s glad that her partner’s widow won’t be burdened by them, her head is spinning. 

She’s thankful when the stream of questions is halted by a phone call. Kara pulls out her cell phone, brow crinkling as she reads the number on the screen. 

“Shoot, I have to return this call, it’s our florist. They delivered the wrong flowers this morning.” She looks to Maggie for her approval before tapping out a text message. “I’ve asked my sister to finish your appointment, she’ll be up in just a moment.”

“Yeah, that’s… That’s fine.” Frankly she could use some space to breathe for a few moments. 

The smell of the flowers is overwhelmingly sweet, so much so that it almost feels sinister, like it’s covering something much darker. She stumbles into the side room only to be met with a number of display coffins. She runs her hand over the smooth black laminate finish of the coffin closest to her. It’s masculine, lined with a deep red velvet, and she imagines her partner lying in it. It’s too ostentatious, too much. 

It’s all too much.

“The maple,” a soft voice suggests, “It suits him.”

Maggie turns to the doorway, where a tall woman is leaning against the doorframe. This must be the sister. She’s more severe-looking than Kara, her dress slacks and blouse reminiscent of the federal agents Maggie has to shoo off of her crime scenes. 

She glides into the room, her gaze piercing, and Maggie’s hackles are immediately raised. 

“Suits him?” she asks, “You know this how?”

“I’m the mortician. Alex Danvers,” she says simply, “I picked him up this morning.”

She picked him up. He’s here in this very building, possibly under her feet, and this woman is speaking about him like she got him from the airport. Like he hasn’t spent the past few days in a refrigerator at the morgue post-autopsy.

The mortician brushes past her and she’s hit with the strange combination of perfume and Vicks Vapor Rub. She’s known enough Crime Scene Investigators to know that it’s to cover the smell of death and the thought unsettles her.

She can’t compartmentalize this. There’s no line between work and home. Not now. 

“Kara said that you’re interested in an open casket.” Alex folds her arms behind her back. “In that case we do require embalming. You’ve brought pictures of Detective Feldman?”

Straight to business.

“Uh, yeah…” She fishes through her bag for the formal portrait she’d brought with her and hands it over.

Alex studies it for a moment. “There will be some reconstruction work that will need to be completed, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Her smile is tight, meant to be reassuring, but it’s clear that her sister takes care of the front of house business for a reason. Maggie has seen it with the ME’s, with the CSIs. They’re used to death just as she is, but they never have to interact with the families. They don’t know how to soften those blows. Like Alex, they fall back on science, on professionalism.

It’s awkward, but Maggie appreciates the efficiency and is thankful when the appointment is brought to a swift end.

~

The Danvers women are ghosts throughout the funeral, greeting the widow, making sure everything runs smoothly. The flowers are understated, yet beautiful, and Maggie is certain that Feldman would approve of the soft string arrangements of his favorite rock song. 

Eventually, it comes her time to approach the open casket. With each footfall, her heart drops, her stomach churning. The last time she had seen him still breathing, he was bleeding out onto the pavement beside her. But when she stands over his body now, she could swear he is just sleeping. He looks just like she remembers. 

And the maple truly does suit him.

She catches Alex’s eye from the back of the room as she turns to walk back to her seat, and she offers the mortician a silent thanks. As blunt as she had been during their appointment, she really is talented.

After the service, she rides in one of the police escort vehicles trailing behind the hearse, and when they arrive at the cemetery, she picks up her pallbearer duties once more. 

Beside her, his widow sobs as his body is lowered into the ground, and grief settles heavy on her shoulders like six feet of earth. Mourners trickle away from the cemetery slowly, yet Maggie remains behind with Mrs. Feldman. Neither of them are quite ready to let go. 

~

The next day, she’s back at work. Her Sergeant offers her bereavement but she declines— she needs to keep busy. Still, whenever she turns to his desk to crack a joke or ask for his opinion on a case, his chair is empty and so is her chest. 

She’s no stranger to loss. Her parents kicked her out when she was fourteen and while that pain has dulled, she still carries it with her. A scar that will never heal. Now, she feels like she has lost her father all over again, but this time there’s no part of her that hopes that one day he’ll come around. Death is final. 

She stops by the cemetery after her shift, a bunch of flowers in tow. She’d been so busy keeping it together for Mrs. Feldman that she hadn’t really had a chance to say a proper goodbye. His headstone hasn’t been placed yet, so she sets the bouquet by the temporary marker. 

On her way back to her bike, she spots a familiar figure stooped over another grave. Alex is alone, no sign of the hearse or her sister. The sun is just beginning to set and she should really head home, but she’s drawn to Alex’s side. She’d been meaning to stop by the mortuary at some point, to thank the Danvers sisters for their impeccable service, but her schedule hasn’t allowed for it. 

The cemetery grass crunches under her boots, announcing her arrival, and Alex greets her with the same sad smile that she had offered Maggie at the funeral. 

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Maggie says, “Without the whole entourage I mean. Unless morticians just spend all their free time in graveyards.”

Alex gestures to the grave at her feet; the name _Jeremiah Danvers_ is etched on the headstone. 

“Oh.” Jokes and sarcasm have always been Maggie’s way of diffusing tension, but now she feels like an absolute ass. “Your father?”

“He died a few years ago in a car crash,” Alex explains, “Sometimes I just like to come talk to him.”

“I get that. The last couple days... I’ve been so used to having him around, you know? I’ll be at my desk working and I’ll turn around to see what he wants for lunch and there’ll be someone else sitting at his desk. It’s…”

“It’s bizarre.”

“Yeah…”

They stand together in companionable silence as the sun sinks lower in the sky. 

Death is a topic most people tend to avoid. It’s an unspoken eventuality: one day everyone will die. Yet when it occurs, particularly when it’s sudden, Maggie has found that people shut down. She’s seen it often enough in her line of work, in dealing with the families and friends of homicide victims. She can look them in the eye and deliver the news— can tell them that she’ll do her best to bring the perpetrator to justice, but other than that, what is there for her to say? Anything else seems like empty platitudes. 

She knows what it feels like on the other end now. How invisible she feels, even as everyone she meets offers their condolences and an ear if she needs to talk. It’s meaningless.

So she’s thankful for this time with Alex, a woman who too has suffered loss. Alex isn’t looking at her with pity, but with understanding. 

Wind rustles through the trees, sending a chill through the air. Alex wraps her arms around herself and Maggie notes that neither of their leather jackets are built for the cold.

“Listen, I… Would you… Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” she asks.

Alex turns from the sunset and blinks at her owlishly. “Coffee?”

She offers Alex a smile. “Yeah, it’s getting chilly and I could use the company.”

Alex considers it for a moment. “Noonan’s? On third?”

Maggie nods. “I’ll meet you there.”

~

Alex is sitting at a corner booth when she arrives, fingers curled around a coffee cup, worrying her lip between her teeth. Maggie stops at the counter to order her own drink and a couple of scones before making her way to Alex’s table. 

“Blueberry or pumpkin?” She slides onto the bench across from Alex, offering her the plate. 

“Blueberry, definitely blueberry. I hate pumpkin,” Alex scoffs, her nose scrunching up at the thought. 

“I’ll have to remember that.” 

Alex hums in agreement, breaking off a piece of the treat and popping it into her mouth. “No pumpkin, and absolutely no pecan pie.”

“Lucky you that my favorite is apple.” Maggie settles into the booth, removing her jacket and warming her hands on the still steaming cup. Alex too has shed her outer layer, revealing a grey sweater that makes her look much less severe than she had the day they met.

She hadn’t really been in the right headspace at the time to notice, but now Maggie can fully appreciate the fact that Alex is a gorgeous woman. 

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says, “I was planning on stopping by... I wanted to thank you.”

Alex waves off the compliment. “Kara did most of the work— all the organizing. I just did my job.”

Maggie shakes her head. This woman was far too humble. “The funeral was lovely, sure, but it meant a lot to Mrs. Feldman to be able to see him again. Like he was. She didn’t- He wasn’t in good shape… After…”

Maggie trails off, the image of her partner’s body lying on the slab in the medical examiner’s office coming to the forefront of her mind. The autopsy had been necessary for the investigation of his death, but his body had been battered, bruised, and stitched up without the care that had been afforded to him by Alex’s steady hand. 

Alex nods in understanding, a dark look crossing her eyes as she drinks deeply from her cup, emptying it just as the cheer had drained from the room.

Maggie has seen horrific things in her career. As much as she tries to separate her work, it occasionally follows her home, haunting her in her sleep. There was one case last year, a triple murder that she and Feldman had worked, in which a shotgun had been the primary murder weapon. For three weeks after their arrival at the scene, all she could see when she closed her eyes was that living room, furniture upturned and drenched in blood. The spattering on the walls. The three bodies— one of them far too small.

She never thought about what happened to that family after they left the medical examiner’s office, once the case had been closed. Maybe they had been sent to Danvers’s Mortuary. Maybe Alex had taken them, cleaned them, and repaired the damage just as she had with Detective Feldman. 

Maybe she is as familiar with those horrors as Maggie is.

“Everyone deserves to be dignified in death,” Alex says eventually, but the storm raging within her doesn’t clear. This isn’t the statement of a mere dedicated mortician, a professional creed. It’s personal, and Maggie isn’t sure if she should press on into the squall.

But she sees something in Alex, something familiar— a kindred spirit perhaps— so she braces herself and jumps into the fog. 

“Your father wasn’t.” 

Alex’s fingers curl into fists on the table. It’s confirmation enough.

“I was in college when it happened.” She flattens her palms back out, breathing deeply. “I remember getting the call. I wasn’t certified yet, and my mom…”

“She didn’t want to handle it,” Maggie finishes. 

Alex nods. “I can’t blame her. I used to think that it would have been the ultimate honor, to take care of him in death. In hindsight, I think I wouldn’t have been able to do it either. Lord Mortuary Services handled it— well, botched more like.” Her nose crinkles again in distaste. “They didn’t even cover up all the bruises.” She glares into her empty cup, frowning at the foam dried on the sides. “They’re one of those corporate places— tried to buy us more than once even. They just… It’s just a business for them.”

“They don’t care like you do.”

Alex looks back up at Maggie, her anger diffusing. “I’m being unfair probably. I’ve been told more than once that my standards are too high.”

“But it matters.” She places her hand on Alex’s. “It matters to people, Alex. It mattered to Mrs. Feldman. And to me.”

That coaxes a smile from Alex. “You’re sweet, detective. And much better with people than I am, clearly.”

“Maggie,” she offers, “You can call me Maggie. And you’re better than you think.”

It comes out more suggestive than she intends, yet she doesn’t regret it. Not with the way Alex’s face flushes. 

She’d be lying if she said that Alex wasn’t her type— all hard edges and angles, with a big brain and a heart of gold. It doesn’t hurt that she looks great in a leather jacket.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” she asks. 

Alex bites her lip and motions to the server for another round.

They sit like that until Noonan’s closes, conversation easing into the mundane, and then when they’re shooed out the door, they linger in the alley by their bikes. 

Maggie shoves her hands in her pockets and rocks back on the heels of her boots. It’s late and she’s got an early shift at the precinct in the morning, but the last thing she wants to do is spend time in her apartment alone. Her head and heart are both heavy— with loss, with loneliness, with remembering. The longer this night lasts, the more time she has before she’s again faced with the reality that her partner— her pseudo-father— is no longer there.

And truthfully, she can think of no one she wants to spend time with more than the woman across from her. Regardless of the circumstance, she’d want to take her home.

She’s not sure how it starts. Whether she leans in first, or if Alex is the one who makes the first move, but the minute their lips are pressed together, Maggie knows she never wants it to stop.

Her back hits the brick wall of the alley and she pulls Alex closer, deepening the kiss, delighting at the way Alex whimpers when she nips her bottom lip. Alex is beautiful, her lips are soft, her hands are warm, and she’s so _alive._

But then, Alex startles, taking a step back and Maggie instantly misses her warmth. “What did you say?”

“I- what?” She’s still dazed, her brain fuzzy. 

“I’m alive?” Alex winds her arms around her torso, putting up a barrier between herself and Maggie. “Is that… Is that what this is? You just want to feel alive?”

“No!” She’s shocked into action, the breath stolen from her lungs. “I just…” She’d thought that, hadn’t she? She’d thought that but it wasn’t what she _meant._

But Alex’s eyes are narrowed and suddenly she’s no longer Alex Who Hates Pumpkin Spice. She’s not even Alex the Surly Mortician. This Alex is someone else entirely. “I _like_ you, Maggie. I think you’re charming and funny and just- ugh, you’re beautiful! But if you just asked me out to, I don’t know, fuck your sadness away, I’m not here for that.”

It’s said with such venom that Maggie is left to wonder if this has happened to Alex before— if she’d been used for comfort and tossed away. Her stomach churns as the poisonous accusation sinks in and she fumbles for Alex’s wrist as the other woman turns to storm out of the alley.

“Alex, wait, please-” She’s desperate to right this wrong. It’s true that she aches for the comfort that human contact can bring. She wants to forget, just for one night. But if that’s all she wanted, she would have called up an ex or an old booty call, not invited the cute mortician out for coffee. Alex had captivated her from the beginning, and Alex must have sensed a connection too or she wouldn’t be here. “Please, just let me explain-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Alex yanks her arm away and stalks across the parking lot. “Thank you for the coffee, Detective. Goodnight.” 

She drives off into the night, and Maggie watches helplessly as she disappears, leaving her alone again. 

~

The next morning, she’s sick to her stomach. 

Her decision to polish off a six-pack of beer when she had gotten home had been ill advised and she’d spent the better part of the night curled up on the bathroom tile. Her mouth is dry, her body aches, her head is pounding, and honestly she thinks she deserves it. 

She silences the incessant chirping of her alarm and stares up at the ceiling. Hangovers can be dealt with. A little water and some acetaminophen and she can manage to crawl out of bed and approximate human function. 

But guilt? That weighs her down worse than anything.

Alex was right. 

Since her partner’s funeral, all she has been trying to do is forget; to bury her grief in work and sex. She had wanted to use their connection as a coping mechanism and that wasn’t fair to Alex or herself. 

After a long, scalding shower, she ends up calling out of work. She intends to take 24 hours, cry it out, and get back to the grind the following day, but her sergeant offers two weeks off with counseling from the precinct therapist and this time, she takes it. 

As the days wear on, she falls back into a routine, and when she does return to work, she finds that she isn’t haunted by the lack of Feldman’s presence as she once was. She still misses him— still wishes she had his friendship and his counsel— but she’s making a choice to look to the future. She had been the youngest officer in NCPD history to make detective and he had believed in her when so many others had scoffed at her age and inexperience. And above all else, he had saved her life. She owes it to him to show that his faith in her was well-placed, to rise even further in the ranks. 

She still visits him at the cemetery. It’s a chance to air her frustrations, share her triumphs, and pay her respects. She also hopes that she might catch a glimpse of Alex again, but the mortician never shows. 

Three months after his death, she skips her usual trip to visit his grave, instead stopping by his favorite Chinese takeaway and heading to his widow’s house. 

She looks down at her watch, its surface freshly cleaned of her partner’s blood. She’s a few minutes late, thanks to traffic, and she knows she’s going to hear about it. Sure enough, when his widow opens the door, she gathers Maggie into her arms, grinning ear to ear. “Maggie Sawyer, you’re late! Get in here.” 

The warmth is comforting. Familiar. 

“It’s good to see you, Susan.” 

She hasn’t seen Susan Feldman since the funeral, and when the older woman hugs her again, tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

“Nope, we’re not gonna do that,” the widow says with a watery smile, “He would have hated it.”

“Oh absolutely,” Maggie laughs at that. Whenever they were praised for a job well done, he always stood back to give her the lion’s share of the credit. It wasn’t that he was overly humble— in fact, he was prone to brag about their accomplishments— but he never liked when attention was on him. “Remember last year on his birthday, when he threatened to whip out his gun at the restaurant if we tried to sing _Happy Birthday?_ ”

“Or the year before that when you both received commendations and had to stand up on stage?” Susan shakes her head fondly, beckoning Maggie into the kitchen. They settle around the small table, doling out sesame chicken and vegetable lo mein and swapping happy memories. 

It feels a lot like healing.

When their plates are clean and bellies are full, Susan leans back in her chair and smiles at Maggie. “I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve missed our usual weekend dinners. We may be two now, but there’s no reason for them not to continue.”

“I’m glad I stopped by too. I’m sorry it took so long. It’s been rough,” she admits, “I feel like you’re handling it better than I am.”

Susan sighs, eyes drifting to a photograph on the wall. In the frame, a younger Detective Feldman is grinning as his wife places his uniform cap on his head. “You detectives lead dangerous lives. When I married him, I knew this might happen.”

All police officers understand the dangers of their jobs. It’s why they work in pairs, why they have backup, why they wear bulletproof vests when they’re heading into a potentially harrowing situation. But knowing that something bad could happen and seeing it come to pass are very different things. 

“Would you have done it again? Knowing you’d only get this much time?”

“In a second. I’d do everything the same. Even if it was cut short, I’m so happy for the time we did have together.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“It’s love.” Susan smiles, shaking off the gloom. “It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him, every second of the day, but he’s always with me. In here.” She points to her head, then her heart. Then she points to Maggie. “And he’s with you too. You’ll always be family, Maggie, even though he’s gone.”

Warmth fills her body at the reminder. Her parents may have disowned her, but blood doesn’t make a family. She has a chosen family of her own to celebrate in her successes, and she doesn’t have to wallow in her grief alone. She has her aunt back in Omaha and Susan Feldman and the rest of the squad. 

And maybe… 

Maybe she could have someone else too.

She’s thought about Alex Danvers a lot over the past few weeks. How she’s doing, whether she thinks about their kiss as often as Maggie does. She’s been tempted to call Danvers Mortuary half a dozen times to apologize and ask for a second chance, but every time she punches in the number, something stops her. 

Fear. 

“What’s on your mind?” Susan asks.

“It’s...” Maggie shifts in her chair. She’s not even sure how to explain the situation. The rocky meeting, the burgeoning respect, the first date gone horribly wrong. “It’s this girl.”

“Please tell me it’s not that woman from vice you two always complained about.”

“No, god no,” Maggie snorts, “You know the funeral director?”

“The sunny blonde?” Sarah raises an eyebrow skeptically. At Maggie’s scoff, she corrects, “The brunette? Ah I see. She was pretty.”

“I asked her out for coffee.” Maggie sighs, folding her arms on the table and resting her head on them. She has been so hesitant to talk to her therapist about Alex because she can count the number of times they’ve met on one hand. She doesn’t know Alex’s favorite color or television show. She doesn’t know whether Alex is an early riser or a night owl. But they had bared pieces of their souls that night at Noonan’s. Alex had opened up to her about her father and in turn, Maggie felt like Alex had _seen_ her. How do you explain the feeling of losing something that never truly started?

The best she can hazard is, “I messed things up.”

Chair legs scratch on the linoleum of the kitchen floor and Maggie looks up to see Susan rising from her seat. She drifts towards the photograph, her fingers tracing patterns in the dust on the frame. “If there’s one thing I know for sure now, it’s that life is short. If you like this girl, you should tell her. It’s never too late to make things right.”

“Just like that?” 

Could it really be so simple?

“Go apologize and kiss the girl you want to kiss, Sawyer. We both know that’s what Nick would say.”

“I’ll do my best.” 

She stands and Susan draws her into a hug. 

“I expect to see both you and your girl for Thanksgiving.” Her words are muffled into Maggie’s hair. “It’s tradition.”

A watery laugh bursts from her chest. “You make your famous apple pie, and you’ve got a deal.”

~

Her palms are sweating against the steering wheel of her cruiser, her body thrumming with nervous energy as she turns onto Siegel Ave. 

She should have called ahead. Alex might not even be there. She could be picking up a body from the hospital or at the cemetery. Maybe she should turn back. Head home and regroup. Buy flowers or chocolate or maybe even pizza and beer. If she is there, it would be unwise to show up empty handed. 

But her body is three steps ahead of her brain and before she can convince herself to abandon this endeavor, she’s turning into the parking lot of Danvers Mortuary. It’s empty, save for the hearse and the refrigerated van, and at that point Maggie knows that she has no option but to forge ahead. There would be no moment more perfect than this, no “right time”. 

She shuts the car door and crosses the length of the parking lot, stopping only once at the door to adjust her shirt and brush imaginary dirt off of her jeans. 

Kara is typing away at the computer in the front room when she enters. She looks up from the screen and adjusts her glasses. 

“Detective Sawyer. Are you here on business?” Kara’s tone is brisk and Maggie wonders how much Alex has revealed to her sister. 

“No, actually I was hoping to talk to Alex.” 

“The last time you talked to Alex, she spent an hour on my couch sobbing into a pint of ice cream.” 

Maggie’s heart falls. “I know I fucked up,” she pleads, “I just want to make it right.”

Kara’s eyes narrow behind her thick frames and the way she scans Maggie’s face makes her feel completely exposed. “Fine,” she relents, turning back to her computer, “Alex is downstairs. But if you make her cry again, I will throw you into the sun. I don’t care that you’re a police officer.”

A chill runs down her spine. She can’t quite explain why, but she doesn’t doubt that Kara could actually make good on her threat. 

She walks past Kara’s desk and makes her way down the staircase. As she approaches the bottom, she hears music in the distance and she follows the sound down the hall, passing a series of closed doors. She rounds the corner, minding a simple pine casket that has been pushed against the side of the hall. There’s a large dent in the side, the wood splintered on the top, possibly dropped on delivery, and the pit in Maggie’s stomach grows.

Just past the casket, she’s met with the source of the sound, the preparation room. 

She stands on tiptoe to peer through the glass window in the door. There in the middle of the room, dressed in full-body coverings and a respirator is Alex, bent over an old man lying on her table. Maggie can’t hear her voice over the music, but she can see her lips moving, talking to the man as she pumps his body full of embalming solution.

Even through such a gruesome procedure, Alex is trying her best to humanize them. To remind herself that the individuals on her table have people who love them, who want to see them one last time. She moves with such fluidity, her hands as precise as a surgeon, and Maggie is spellbound. 

She waits until Alex appears to be at a stopping point to knock. When she does rap on the door, Alex’s head whips up, surprise written on her face when she catches sight of Maggie. Her gaze darts back to the man on the table, then back to Maggie. She holds up a gloved finger as if to say “one minute” and she sets down her equipment. 

It takes Alex more than a minute to strip off her gloves and protective clothing and when she joins Maggie in the hall, she seems unsure of herself. 

“Um, what are you doing here?” she greets, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

She’s dressed down, wearing jeans and an old college shirt, and Maggie’s heart clenches. She’s even more beautiful in the light of day. 

“I just needed to see you. To talk to you.” She takes a step closer, faltering when Alex takes a step back. “But, clearly you want me out of your hair, so I’m just gonna go. I’m sorry. This was stupid.” 

“No! Maggie, that’s not it I just-” She wrinkles her nose as she gestures to herself. “I just, kinda smell. You know, uh…” She glances back at the prep room. “Formaldehyde and all. It kinda just permeates...”

“No, it’s fine.” Maggie smiles. This time, when she closes the distance between herself and Alex, the mortician doesn’t jump away. ”I don’t mind it.” 

It’s not a lie. She’s grown used to the smell of death and that antiseptic cleanliness no longer reminds her of those long hours spent in that hospital waiting room. Instead it reminds her of comfort. Of safety. Of Alex. Of how hard she works and how much she cares.

“So you wanted to talk?” 

Alex is still a little guarded and Maggie can’t blame her. 

“I wanted to apologize first. Not for asking you out or for kissing you, but…” She should have practiced this more. She’d been so confident this morning, but now that Alex is here in front of her, it feels like she’s forgotten how to speak. “I just... can we start over?“ 

It’s all she can manage and she just hopes that it will be enough. But Alex’s smile is tight, the same one that she’d worn during Maggie’s appointment to arrange the funeral. 

“Maggie…” 

“You know what, this was stupid. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” 

“I just need some time to think about it.” 

“Yeah, okay, that’s… No problem. I’ll see you around, Danvers.” It’s not an outright rejection, but that almost makes it worse. Humiliation burns as she flounders through a goodbye. She turns and hurries down the corridor, eager to put some distance between herself and Alex’s soulful gaze. Why had she even bothered? Alex had made herself clear that night at Noonan’s.

Suddenly as she’s turning the corner, her boot catches a gap in the floorboards and she hurtles forward, the casket from before catching her fall. In an instant, she’s on the floor next to it and her nose is throbbing. 

Alex rushes to her side, alarmed. “Oh my god, Maggie, are you alright?”

Maggie is stunned. She reaches up to her nose and her fingers come away wet, slicked with blood, the surface of her watch once again flecked with the stuff. 

“I saw it on the way down,” Maggie mumbles, the taste of iron thick on her tongue, “how the hell did I miss it?” 

“I’d argue you didn’t miss it.” It’s an attempt at a joke, but Maggie can hear the slight tremble in Alex’s voice. “I asked Kara to move that last week…”

There’s fear in Alex’s eyes now as she takes in the blood gushing from Maggie’s nose. She sprints to a side room and before Maggie can even blink, she’s back by her side, pressing a towel to her nose. 

“Okay, I’m going to help you up,” she says, taking Maggie by the arm that isn’t now clamping her nostrils together. Once Maggie is upright, Alex leads her up the stairs, glancing back at her every few steps. They pass the reception desk and Kara’s curious stare and head up a second set of stairs Maggie hadn’t noticed before. 

The stairs give way to a small living and dining area with a full kitchen— all more modernized than the traditional Victorian decor of the first floor and the basement. They enter the master bedroom, painted a soft calming grey, and Alex sits her on the edge of the king-sized bed. 

“Don’t lie down, okay? I’m going to get some ice.” 

Maggie nods and she’s left alone in the room. She knows she should be leaning forward, but the opportunity to snoop around is too much. She’s a detective after all.

There’s a few paintings on the wall and some knick-knacks on the shelves, along with a few succulents that Maggie suspects might be fake. More than anything though, there are books: large anatomy textbooks mixed with classic science fiction, all well-worn and loved. This is Alex’s room, she’s sure of it. She hadn’t thought about it before, but it makes sense that Alex would live here. Death doesn’t keep 9 to 5 hours. 

Alex returns with an ice pack and another towel and Maggie’s head immediately snaps back down, the sudden motion making her head swim. 

She joins Maggie on the bed, gently taking the towel from her and handing her the clean one. She holds the ice pack to the back of Maggie’s neck and they sit in silence for a few minutes. 

“Can you breathe okay?” Alex asks.

“Yeah.” Maggie dabs at her nose and to her relief the blood flow has mostly stopped. 

“Any pain when I touch it?” Alex moves her hands to Maggie’s face, cradling her cheek with one hand and pressing gently on her nose with her other. It’s so incredibly intimate, more so even than that night. 

“No,” she breathes, “it doesn’t hurt. Not badly at least.”

“Good, it’s probably not broken, but I haven’t had a live patient in a while.” 

It’s a silly joke, but it eases the tension between them. Alex’s hand now rests on her knee and she’s smiling at her and Maggie falls just a little more. 

“You know, I had this whole thing planned when I came here, but I saw you and I just…” She taps her nose. “This is not at all how I saw it going.” 

“Did you have a whole speech written or something?” 

“Or something.”

“Well, I’m here. If you wanted to give it another go.” 

She hasn’t moved her hand and hope simmers in Maggie’s chest. 

“Well, the gist of it was…” She covers Alex’s hand with her own. “Life is short. We should be who we are and we should kiss the girls we want to kiss. And I want to kiss you.” 

“Well.” Alex smiles, eyes flicking down to Maggie’s lips and back up again. “Are you going to?” 

And there in Alex’s bedroom above the funeral home— minding her nose— Maggie does. 

  
  
  



End file.
